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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061328">To hate the ones we have become</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soup1039/pseuds/Soup1039'>Soup1039</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supergirl (TV 2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Feels, F/F, this is a vent fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:22:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soup1039/pseuds/Soup1039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The fic in which Lena realizes the thing she hates most about her mother is the fact that she is becoming her. Heavily OC for many readers, some heavy angst and themes here.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>To hate the ones we have become</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's funny really how much my mother and I have in common. I hate this fact, I loathe and seethe it, and yet, it's the thing that binds the two of us together. I realize this while sitting on the couch, staring into nothing while a movie numbly plays. People always describe their depressive awakenings as dark and dim things, them pouting into a glass of scotch as the darkness surrounds them to set the mood. It's grossly hyperbole, as if the majority of the depressed population would simply have <em>time</em> to do that, to have the energy to hide behind liquor before confronting their inner demons. That's why I find these seemingly happy moments alone the most frightening: I can't hide behind a smile and the wave of a good mood if there's, quite honestly, no one there. Kara's out at work like most Fridays--there's a debriefing always that day, just to review the current press opinion of the DEO and to review any security or law changes--and she won't be home for at least another hour. It's been a busy week, with back to back aliens growling out of the shadows, so it makes sense. In any case, at least now I have time to depressingly brood with myself. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the couch, its smooth, cool, leather providing a respite from my thoughts about my mother before they come back. They always do, no matter how hard I try.</p><p>My mother was always a fickle thing in my life. She bounced back and forth from the loving, caring, aristocrat--as her colleagues knew her anyways--to a firm, stubborn, unrelenting storm as easily as bouncing a tennis ball. One day it would be, <em>Lena, darling, I bought you this new toy. I knew you'd like it, aren't you so glad I'm rich so we can do these things?</em>, then the next <em>Lena, I don't care about your homosexual tendencies. I don't understand them; Why not just go out and dance naked in the streets with a flag wrapped around your shoulders if you're so proud then, hm?</em> It was this bipolarness that I hated most about my mother. I would melt like ice cream on a warm summer day into her palms because she <em>was</em> kind. She bought me things and made me food and did the essential things to be a mother and was loved by all. So why was it that I could never seem to stay on her good side for more then a week? Perhaps, the problem was me.</p><p>This mentality followed me throughout my childhood and adolescence like a bad omen, and it's one I've grew into over the years. It strikes me everytime I look into the mirror after a tough meeting, and all I can see is my mothers cruel face staring back at me, her traits peeking through as I remember how just the day before I'd given my employees a large raise, but now I'm cracking the whip because of an error. Her stubbornness stabbing me like a knife as I remember all the times she forced me into things I didn't want to do, the times that I felt as if I had no opinion, the times that now <em>I </em>am merely reenacting because of my goddamn personality. I almost crunch the glass of wine I'd gotten to ease the edge of the quiet in my angry manifesto. God, how I also grew into my father, haven't I?</p><p>My father was a man of several talents. Engineering, robotics, a great mind in general. He owned them all on his sleeve with pride, and I loved that part of him. However, my father wasn't without his faults. My mother and him would've never married if not for the benefit of the joint finances, and it was clear in everyday of my childhood. The constant arguments ringing throughout the house because he left something carelessly open, the temper he bore as he stomped around the house, the general affinity for beer that blurred the line of addiction. He was a great man, but like us all, he had his flaws.</p><p>I've grew into these maleficent traits of my parents, a cruel realization of the things I hate from both of them. My temper rages with the smallest of ignitions, my stubbornness cracks through anyone and their opinions, my bias and my ignorance slicing through my loved ones like a whip. I've become the ones that I hate, even without noticing.How many have I hurt because of my parents traits? How many times have I acted like them without noticing? How many times have I--</p><p>"<em>Lena</em>? I'm home," A voice calls from the hallway. It's Kara, I realize far too quickly. I wipe the tears from my eyes and I notice the glass has almost shattered in my hand, blood splattering my palm wherever the glass cracked and my hands dug in too far.</p><p>"Hey," I call, my voice still a little shaky. <em>Goddamn</em> <em>it Lena, you had one fucking job to keep your composer, and you messed it up</em>. Its like my father and mother have morphed into one sick manifestation of my personality, and it makes me feel sick.</p><p>"Hey, how are--oh my god, are you okay?" Kara rushes over, grabbing the glass out of my hand gently to set it down.</p><p>"Yeah sorry I dropped the glass but caught it with my super reflexes," I chuckle softly. Kara raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything in response. She grabs the first-aid kit she stores just in case of minor injuries from her superhero-ing, and, after a few choice words on my part from the antiseptic and the tweezers to get out the glass, she delicately wraps my right hand in ace bandages.</p><p>"I'm gonna go make some mac and cheese for dinner," She states quietly as she packs up the kit.</p><p>"Kara, no. I'm on a diet, and I've got work to do, and I'm <em>fine</em>, really. It's just a couple cuts I don't need the full Danvers care package, you really don't need to-"<br/><br/></p><p>"No."<br/><br/></p><p>"What the hell does that mean?" I look at her incredulously. Kara just stares at me intensely in response.<br/><br/></p><p>"I said no. You're going to go sit on the couch, and I'm going to make you some mac and cheese and you're going to get a movie ready. I don't know what's going on, but I want you to know that I'm highly concerned, and this is my way of fixing it. I won't ask, you can tell me when you're ready."</p><p> </p><p>"Can I least get some-"</p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p>"You don't even know what I'm going to ask," I say, a smirk tugging at the edge of my lips.</p><p>"It's wine and work isn't it?" Kara deadpans with her eyebrows raised.</p><p>"It was, but it can be just wine." I joke, smiling. <br/><br/></p><p>“Well judging from the fact that that bottle of whiskey was closed when I last checked, and now it’s miraculously three quarters full I think anymore alcohol is out of the question for you.” Kara points out in retort, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>”Fine,” I grumble, pulling out </p><p> </p>
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